


A Kingdom for a Stage

by PyrrhaIphis



Category: Henry V (1989), Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Implied Romance, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:40:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21666823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PyrrhaIphis/pseuds/PyrrhaIphis
Summary: Anno Domini 1415, towards the end of October, an army of miserable Englishmen trudges onwards through the fields of France.  Among the boys with the baggage train is young Arthur, former squire to the late, lamented Falstaff.  One evening, he is surprised to see that one of the king's soldiers is the handsome minstrel, Curt, whose antics had so appealed to him back in the taverns of London.(With many apologies to William Shakespeare.)
Relationships: Arthur Stuart/Curt Wild
Comments: 9
Kudos: 11
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	A Kingdom for a Stage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/gifts).



The evening fog seemed to shrink the night, compressing the world to the small sliver encompassed by the pale, thin light of the fire. Arthur hugged himself tighter, wishing he had another cloak to throw about his shoulders, or perhaps a drop of ale or wine to drive out the chill of the night. In the day, it was still autumn, but the night was a strong herald of the encroaching winter.

How long had it been since Harfleur? It felt as though it had been years. The warmth of the pub back in London and the laughter of his late master seemed but echoes from another life. A better, warmer life.

“Any room at the fire for one more?” A man’s voice—so much richer than the high-pitched voices of the other boys who hung about the baggage train—distracted Arthur from his self-pity.

“Who goes there?!” squeaked one of the youngest of the boys, ages away from manhood yet. Judging by the pale blotches that speckled his face, he would never see manhood, and it would be a miracle if he didn’t take half the camp with him when he went.

“Just a friendly face in need of a warm place to sit. And maybe a good stiff drink.” The man came closer, into the wan light, and Arthur’s breath caught in his lungs. He didn’t have his lute now, but his face was unmistakable. “Come now, sheathe your sword, pipsqueak.”

“No closer! We don’t know you from those French devils!”

“I do,” Arthur said, getting to his feet. “I used to see him back home in London.”

A miserable noise of disappointment accompanied the lowering of the weapon the boy could barely even lift. But there was also a delighted grin upon the lips that used to sing those charming, bawdy ballads that left the whole tavern in roars of laughter.

“I remember you,” he commented, moving closer to Arthur, “though you’ve grown a foot since I saw you last.”

“I’ve not! Only half that.”

The bard shrugged. “But what are you doing here? Surely your master’s too old to have taken the field with us?”

Arthur’s heart trembled. “My master is dead.”

“Dead? I would have thought Sir John Falstaff would outlive the Devil himself.”

“Aye, so did we all.”

A warm, heavy hand settled on Arthur’s shoulder. “We should drink a toast to his memory.”

“You just want a drink,” Arthur said, laughing despite himself.

“That, too. But isn’t that how he would have wanted it?”

“He would have wanted that drink,” Arthur agreed, “but we have none to give you.”

“But this is where the drinks are kept!”

“And they are not for us to drink or share.” Arthur shook his head. “But we have every freedom to share our fire with you.”

“I suppose I can settle for a seat by the fire and some warm company.” He headed over to the fire, and boys scattered before him, as they had been trained to do. Warmth, like food and wine, was for the nobles first, the soldiers second, and everyone else third. He didn't even have a decent coat of armor—just a couple of metal arm guards and a doublet of thick leather—but it was enough to remind the boys just how worthless they were in comparison.

Arthur followed him over, and sat down beside him. “Did you enlist to fight for the king as well?” he asked.

“I did. Wish I hadn’t, but…” A weak laugh. “You know, I don’t know that I ever learned your name. Those churls who kept company with your master usually just called you ‘boy.’”

“It’s Arthur. And your name was…Curt, right?”

“That’s right.” Curt smiled, giving Arthur far more warmth than the fire in front of them did. “You aren’t armed.” He looked over Arthur’s whole body, with such an intense scrutiny that it made him blush. “You aren’t even shod.”

“I _had_ shoes! I did, honest! My master bought them for me. Only…my feet got too large for them. They were already old and ragged when we left England, and they fell to bits on the roads of Normandy.”

“Why aren’t you armed for battle? Aren’t you a man?”

Arthur’s cheeks heated with shame. “Not according to the king’s men. They said that if I can’t grow hair on my chin, then I can’t fight and die for my king. I’m trying to learn how to fight, though. The men all say we’ll be here for years at this rate. Plenty of time for my first beard to come and prove me a man.”

“Most likely. Years slogging through French mud…” Curt sighed. “I wonder if I will even be missed?”

“Surely everyone who ever heard you sing already misses you terribly.”

Curt laughed, and ruffled Arthur’s hair as best he could around the mud caked into it. “No one pays attention to a mere entertainer. None but another entertainer.”

“I paid attention.” Curt was the sort of man who captivated any who saw him! Captivated, and filled with unsettling, forbidden desires…

“Thanks.” Curt sighed, turning to look into the fire. “The one person I wanted to pay attention to me—the one person I wanted to miss me—I doubt he will notice or care if I never return to England.”

Arthur bit his lip, trying to stop the question that burst out regardless of his better instincts. “Is he why you signed on to join this fight?”

“He is,” Curt agreed. “Why did you sign up?”

Arthur shrugged. “With my master gone, what else did I have to look forward to in life? I have no family, and Mistress Nell could hardly have taken care of me at the pub, especially with her husband gone off to the war.”

“Cheer up,” Curt said, placing a warm arm around his shoulders. “If this war goes on for another year or so, you’ll be able to ride into battle at the king’s side, and make your name as a mighty warrior. I could sing songs about your heroic exploits when we all return home to England!”

Arthur laughed. “I’d like that.” It was an absurd dream, but sitting there with Curt’s arm around him, he felt big and bold enough to make it come true. No feat would be too difficult if it would make him a worthy subject for a song to pass through Curt’s lips.

***

No amount of rousing speeches could ever make up for the carnage Curt was wading through. He had lost spear and sword, and all he could do was head for the edges of the field, praying that no French soldiers would spot him before he could find a convenient weapon. He didn’t dare stop to search for a discarded weapon in the hands of the dead, lest he be taken unaware and join them.

He was nearly to the edge of the field when he saw that beautiful boy, Arthur, talking with one of those scabrous cretins who used to follow in Falstaff’s wake, feeding off his leftovers like so many hyenas. As Curt drew nearer, he realized there was one more there, a defeated Frenchman, and Arthur seemed to be negotiating the terms of his surrender to the enraged idiot that had somehow managed to defeat him.

Curt arrived at Arthur’s side as the fool and the Frenchman left. “What was that about?” Curt asked, making Arthur turn to smile widely at him.

“Old Pistol is collecting a ransom of two hundred crowns from that nobleman.” Arthur shook his head. “If the poor gent ever finds out just what an empty head defeated him, he will surely wish his life _hadn’t_ been spared.” He sighed. “But I must return to the luggage. The French might have a good prey of us, if he knew of it; for there is none to guard it but boys.”

Curt frowned, and glanced back at the roiling turmoil of the field. “Shouldn’t be talking about it where the French can hear, then, should you? I’ll come with you; I need a new weapon.”

Arthur smiled, and nodded. “It’s my responsibility to look after the others, you know,” he said, as they walked. “Since I’m the biggest and oldest of us. And the only one who speaks any French.”

“You learned that from Falstaff, did you?”

“Yes, my master liked to travel in France when he could, and I was more useful if I could tell the innkeepers what sort of drink he wanted.”

Curt was about to speak, when he heard something coming towards them. He pulled Arthur aside as a French charger rode past them, whinnying in fright, its master lolling dead across its neck. “Why did you leave the camp in the first place?” Curt asked. Arthur was actually more armed than Curt was at the moment, having a small axe in one hand, and a flag identifying his army and non-combatant status in the other, but a battlefield was no place for a child, even one on the cusp of manhood. For that matter, a battlefield like this one was no place for an adult, either.

“I had a message to deliver. And then I heard old Pistol shouting. How did you lose your weapons?”

“In that chaos? I count myself lucky not to have lost my hands and my head along with them!” Curt shook his head, and they walked on in silence, making their way through a narrow gap in the crudely sharpened wooden stakes that served as the only fortifications between the battlefield and their camp.

The other boys with the luggage van were scrambling about, seeking supplies and provisions, and making ready for wounded warriors to tumble away from the fight in need of bandages or food. Arthur led Curt to the far side of the row of wagons, where a few swords and spears rested in a cart. “There are few left for you to choose from,” Arthur said. “And even these we wouldn’t have if we had had but a few more men living at the start of the day.”

“Yeah, I get it,” Curt agreed, sighing. “This will do well enough to cut a few French throats,” he said, picking up one of the swords. “Best I can hope for, unless an angel drops out of the sky to take me straight home.”

“If one does, ask it to take me, too,” Arthur said, smiling at him with a sweetness that—if Curt did not imagine it—did nothing to mask his desire.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Curt agreed. Arthur was a bit young, but he’d grow out of that. And he was even more beautiful than Brian…

Miserably, Curt took his new weapon and began the walk back towards the horrors of war. He hadn’t gone more than a few paces when he heard a boy’s scream from behind him. Turning, he saw French horsemen riding through the camp, rending boys with sword and spear.

Time crawled to a stop as Curt ran, screaming a battle cry, desperate to put himself in between those horsemen and Arthur. It was too late for those other boys, but Arthur still stood, swinging futilely with that little axe.

The butt end of a spear connected with Arthur’s chest, sending him sprawling to the ground moments before Curt arrived. His sword caught the next blow, deflecting the point of the spear onto the guard on his arm. The French “nobleman” sneered, and raised his weapon for another strike.

***

“’Tis certain there’s not a boy left alive.” The voice was faint. Distant. Unfamiliar.

There was a clamor, but it was hard to hear. Something heavy was on top of him, weighing him down, hiding the sky, muffling the sound.

“I was not angry since I came to France until this instant!” The angry roar cut through the noise. Its familiar tones stirred him. That was the king’s voice. The voice of the fine and handsome man who had spoken to them so stirringly before this dreadful battle. The voice of the cruel man who had broken his master’s heart.

There was more shouting, but Arthur was still disorientated. What was above him, pressing him down?

Not what, who.

Coming to his senses a bit more, Arthur pushed the body off of him as best he could, causing it to roll off to one side. He could faintly hear someone shouting “Alive! A boy lives!” but he couldn’t pay attention to it.

What had been pressing him down was Curt, his face smeared with mud, blood marring his doublet.

“Curt!” Arthur’s limbs didn’t want to respond, but he forced them to move to a kneeling position beside Curt, touching his face. It was still warm. Did he live?

“Here, boy, let me have a look at him.” Fluellen gently edged Arthur aside and gave Curt a brief inspection. “A trifle of a wound. He should be fine. Can you tell us what happened here?”

Arthur nodded, and did his best to recount the awful tale. The mounted French soldiers riding through the camp in full force, cutting down unarmed boys with such glee, as though they were gentlemen riding after deer. He had been struck and knocked aside, and knew nothing further. The shame of it filled him. His friends, his companions, his brothers-in-baggage had all been slain, and he alone had survived. The cowardice of it!

***

Curt had woken to a tumult. The battle was over, and they had won the day, yet there was no pride, no joy, just a mournful chorus of _Non Nobis_. He had still been dizzy from the blow that French swine had dealt him, so he had not been asked to help clean up the corpses of the boys he hadn’t been able to save. As Curt rested there, not quite able to stand, Arthur kept trying to help, but every time one of the men saw him, they told him to go rest, because he, too, was injured.

Arthur was crying as he joined Curt. They looked to be tears of frustration from where Curt was sitting.

Curt opened his mouth to say something, but what could he say?

They sat there in silence, Arthur’s shoulders gently trembling, until Curt could take no more of it. “You were still brave,” Curt assured him. “Well worthy of a song.”

“I was pathetic. Only a coward lives when his comrades are all dead.”

“That’s not true.” Curt moved closer as best he could, and set a hand on the boy’s knee. “You would only be a coward if you ran away. You live because those villains were cowards. When they saw there was a man here with arms, they ran off like frightened children.” Or perhaps they rode off laughing, thinking they had killed Curt and Arthur both. Having already lost consciousness by the time they left, Curt had no real way of knowing just what they had done.

“Being saved by someone else is no better than being a coward. It still makes me useless.”

“Unfed, unarmed, untrained—what possible situation could ever have you triumph over a knight in such a state?” Curt shook his head. “You raised an axe meant for chopping wood against a man wearing full armor. That makes you one of the bravest men in the English army. Most men on foot run to get out of the way when a man charges towards him on horseback. You stood your ground despite certain defeat. Not many men can say that.”

Arthur sighed again. “Even if you’re right, what does it matter? My life is meaningless. The world would be better off if that man had killed me, too.”

“Don’t say that—don’t ever say something like that!” Curt took his hand off Arthur’s knee, and wrapped his arm around the boy’s shoulders, pulling him close. “No one as beautiful as you are should ever regret being alive.”

“I’ll never be accepted as a soldier after this. And I have no other way to support myself. I can’t sing like you can.”

“Have you tried?”

“My master said I was awful at it,” Arthur said, shaking his head.

“I seem to recall him saying that about me, too,” Curt reminded him. “After throwing an empty flagon at my head.”

Arthur laughed. “He did, didn’t he?” He looked up at Curt, his tear-streaked face now smiling. “But your singing is wonderful.”

“So maybe yours is, too.”

“I…I don’t know…”

“Even if it isn’t, I can train you up,” Curt said. “When we get back to England, you can come with me, and I’ll teach you the art of singing—and even playing the lute, if you want.”

Arthur’s smile widened. “I’d like that,” he said, timidly putting his own arm around Curt’s waist. “Very much.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry I left the romance between them as an implied future event, but after re-watching the movie and being reminded just how young 15 really is, I couldn't quite bring myself to do more than that. 
> 
> (Funny thing, he didn't seem so young when the movie was first in the theaters...)


End file.
